Shabbos in Golders Green

I spent last Shabbos in Golders Green. This was far from my first, yet every time I visit I cannot but help comparing my Stamford Hill community where I was brought up and have lived all my adult life to the the North West community. It is just some seven miles away but architecturally it reminds you of the excesses of certain Brooklyn neighbourhoods, culinarily, of a typical Tel Aviv boulevard, capillarily, somewhat Edwardian and sartorially, located around Dresden, it being the approximate halfway line between Frankfurt and Krakow. But like for everything, there’s a Yiddish saying for this too: A guest for a while sees for a mile.

But first the practicalities. On my arrival I had to park for Shabbos and there I encountered my first obstacle, or civilised order if you’re that way inclined, and obviously not from my neck in the woods. Parking restrictions close to my hotel apply also on a Saturday, Shabbos Koidesh to you and me, and with literally minutes to spare (yes, no need to remind me, I cut it fine, I am after all from Stamford Hill) I circled the streets searching. Not for a parking spot of which there were aplenty but for a Sambation parking sign which does not spew stones on the Day of Rest. All around me men and boys were making their way to shul because the area being predominantly non-Chasidic, davening times start closer to Shabbos. In GG, candle-lighting times are advertised on the pavement and this is also when their shuls generally kick off, whereas the half-hour interval between lecht-tzinden and getting coats on is when Stamford Hill tastes the four famed kugels of Shabbos Zochoir - Apple, Flour, Lokshen and Potato (in Yiddish acrostic of AMoLeK) to the uninitiated.

(I’ve always had a theory that Chasidic shul times are programmed, intentionally or otherwise, to keep men and boys out of the home but that’s for another discussion.)

Anyway, back to parking and circling until I found a spot not too far away but still a few minutes’ walk to my hotel. Or shuffle what with shtreimel box in one hand, garment hanger over an arm (and don’t ask if that long dress was trailing), overnight bag over my shoulder and all the while being the target of sideward disapproving glances of Golders Green denizens. I, for my part, was muttering curses at the local useless arsekonim who dare not challenge the powers that be over this Chilul Hashem of parking rules. Where I live, we’d have had warning notices of the need to emigrate plus a £100k matching campaign for the crime of making you walk more than the stepping-back distance of Oseh Sholom. Though, it was later explained to me that I mustn’t be so harsh. GG arsekonim deserve some latitude having of late had their hands tied on banning the local eiruv. But I’m jumping the gun.

Having grabbed something at Tesco where the shopper in front of me hurried in my honour without being asked, and after checking in at the Nox Hotel on Golders Green Road (cleanliness and facilities: 5*; room size: mousetrap converted into HMO unit) I hurried over to the Munks shul across the road. This is where the Bar Mitzvah for which I’d come was taking place and where the simche had its own Kabollas Shabbos davening.

They were half way through Mincha, which is a perfectly respectable entrance for Stamford Hill, and naturally there was no Nusach Sfarad Siddur to be had. Hello. This is Munks. Would you expect The Book of Common Prayer in a shtiebel? Well, then don’t ask for Nusach Sfarad in the last redoubt of Yekkishkeit. But this is a library for crying out loud. Anyway, a dozen notices on returning books to their place for the good of the books, an integrated ladder for the upper shelves that would make László Tóth proud (yes, I’m pretentiously name checking) and would have kids tumbling off were it in N16, but no Nusach Sfarad siddur. Because that’s Munks for you.

Being in Munks I had peep in the main shul especially this being the Shabbos before Purim.

Norman Lebrecht

once wrote that Simchas Torah in Munks is like Tisha B’Av elsewhere and I hate to prove him wrong but only somewhat. Proceedings there were at a more advanced stage and they were up to the latter part of Lecho Doidi for which the tune was Shoshanas Yaakov. But Mr Lebrecht is right after all: the tempo was more Marche Funèbre than vivace con brio.

Back to my seat in the improvised simcha minyan and maariv passed off uneventfully besides being chided by a blog reader. I’d met him at another Bar Mitzveh some years ago and I quoted him anonymously, so he now had a go at me for almost outing him. I shouldn’t complain though because being accosted by readers is one of the more pleasant features of a GG visit whereas locally they cross the road on sight of my shadow. But there’s a Hebrew saying for that: אין חכם בעירו. There is no sage in his hometown.

The Shabbos meal that followed was a sumptuous affair catered - of course - by a Stamford Hill caterer - because that’s where the foodies head. After the multi-course meal washed down by a full-bodied Margaux it was speech time which the star of the show delivered with aplomb on the intricate gendered subject of women’s megillah obligations which ended on a high of appreciation to parents, grandparents and the assembled from far and further still and even your humble correspondent got a shout out. And then for the real highlight which are the gentle barbs reserved for the boy’s siblings, though this being Golders Green, his younger sister was having none of it. And nor did she keep her views to herself. Girl Power Rules!

I will digress here and say something that my locals won’t like. We have an awful practice (‘minhag’ would be too respectful) to interrupt a Bar Mitzvah boy’s speech with song after he’s barely got up on his feet. And if the boy tries to persist, the singing from the men only grows louder. The mum crows, ‘but he knew it so well and last night he said it so nicely’ while dad replies with a simpering smile, ‘shoin’. The sad truth is far too many kids cannot deliver a few words in a loud and clear voice even in their native Yiddish tongue because of the rotten schooling they receive. There are plenty of honourable exceptions but unfortunately what I’m referring to is not a minority. The kids having studied little more than Torah for close to a decade, cheder starts at 3 years old, have very little to show for it. The boys do not generally lein on the shabbos of their bar-mitzvah, they cannot deliver a Dvar Torah or greetings to the assembled though they’ll walk home with mounds of books, most of which they’ll never take a second glance at. Anyway ‘nough said.

Shabbos morning and I headed down Golders Green Road to Sadigur (pronounced Sudiger and in GG with the accent on SU) but not before I realised that I had forgotten my shtreimel the night before in Munks. The events hall of the night before is used on Shabbos morning for an early minyan where they were taking out the Sefer Torah when I walked in. I entered sheepishly and took a glance around but nowhere was my shtreimel to be seen and was hardly assured when told that no one there would touch it. Someone took me around the cloakrooms to check and we finally found my sable hat in the kitchen. I was as relieved that it hadn’t been impounded as they must have been to be rid of the צלם בהיכל, a crucifix in the temple.

And so I took a stroll down Golders Green Road on what was a lovely morning admiring en route the local architectural gaiety, or vernacular if you want to give some of the monstrosities a sophisticated twist. Here you will encounter everything from the eternal hovel that is Reb Chune’s (shame on them), Beit Shemesh-on-the-Green that is the pulpit of (former?) firebrand Rav Bassous, or perhaps Bleak House following the litigation it gave rise to, a touch of Bournemouth on the other side of the road as befits the Sage Nursing Home, balconies and terraces though no sand and sea, then Rav Brief’s shul which blink and you miss it because for some reason it still looks like a builder’s yard from the outside. Here I pause for a moment as I popped in briefly to commend Rav Brief for standing aside from his Chasidic Rabbinic peers and refusing to proclaim a ban of the newly-installed, hyper-kosher eiruv. Then it’s past such household names as Grodz, Kosher Kingdom and Reich’s and finally you reach Sadigur. But not before being greeted warmly by a former Stamford Hiller. I asked him if he carried in the new eiruv and he said he carried only in the old one…

.

And here we take a break. Because if the Bassous style points to the Levant, Sadigur is a disneyesque hotchpotch of neo-imperialistic crenelated turrets, evoking the legendary grandeur of its faux-’royal’ Ruzin roots, Bnei Brak appertures, council-house yellow blended with Jerusalem white and topped by a modern glass upper.

But for the moment it’s still a building site, and the entrance is via a tradesman’s entrance which was the old shul. I had barely stepped in and was warmly welcomed. I checked if I may continue into the shul since I favour the local Rebbe’s younger brother as the true heir of their late father’s crown and the usurpers have defied their father’s express wishes. Anyhow, the waft of the kugel heating overnight dispelled all ill feelings and on I marched into the shul that is still a work in progress to find a place, put down my stuff - carried proudly in the reshus horabim d’oiraiso of Golders Green Road - and then made my way out again for a coffee.

Alas there is not much to be said for the coffee room where only Gold Blend was on offer. I mean honestly. I don’t expect a freshly brewed espresso but surely some bog-standard Nescafe classic is not too much to ask for. But this is Golders Green and shock and horror a woman joined me in making her own pre-shacharis coffee. In Stamford Hill they’d announce a day of fast on a transgression like that and here it’s just another morning. Turns out her son was in my son’s class and trust me Nishmas sounds a lot better after a chat like that.

But let’s just dwell for a moment on the shul interior where the neo-chareidi shul bathroom look is given full exposure. More Hammam than shtiebel you might say and possible influenced by the pampered wives of the donor spa-class, especially as taste in our circles is not generally a man’s domain. And if my theory is right then these women despise height, light and air. All the easier to control, you might say, perhaps unkindly.

But the Rebbe who should be the belle of the ball is nowhere to be seen. Aha, there he is. Through a crack, I espy his moving talis and swaying silver headpiece. His Eminence is too elevated for us lot and so spends his prayer time not under the dome they found some space for in the ceiling but in an inner sanctum separated from the congregants by a rather noisy sliding door. We did after all read that very week about the cohen godel having bells on his gown and that “his voice be heard when coming into the holiness” and some wheels on a runner can fulfil that role too.

Before leining we had a gruff announcement that speaking here is forbidden even between the aliyos and then, in Hebrew, “whoever must talk can go outside” because some phrases translate badly. And finally the highlight of the shabbos, a trop-perfect leining in the Bar-Mitzvah lad’s angelic voice followed by the regular bal-koire’s bellow of a pedantic reading of zochoir. And I figured, that if genocide consists of no more than about five versions of zecher, zeicher, zaycher, and not to forget the four kugels, I can just about live with it.

But there was another show in town because with the new eiruv, Shabbos Zochoir was to be a litmus test for the carrying power of Rav Zim. And man did he pull it off because the streets were alive with the sight of buggies. Since women must also eradicate Amolek, they traditionally make their way to shul in droves. What a deal! The women bake the four kugels, while the men get away with permutations of ZKHR. A glorious sun was out for the occasion and in once corner of Sadigur I counted about half a dozen buggies. I was assured by a local that though Sadigur never banned any eiruv it was not a sight you would see under the old eiruv. So there was one big finger for UOHC. Someone also told an in-joke that the Reform will now be making an eiruv round the M25: a wireless one.

One other topic I could not escape was schools which I overheard in numerous conversations. I had barely walked into Sadigur and there was an informal shul group sipping coffees and chatting loudly about the intricacies of the School Admissions Code which is unfortunately gamed by local schools to perfection. At some point a meivin announces, “Reb Dovid hasn’t a bloody clue” and I just loved that juxtaposition of Reb Dovid and bloody. Later I came out from Bridge Lane shul where I davened minche and ‘Torah Vodaas’ hit my ear. And at Shaleshudes time I was walking along Golders Green Road and I passed a strolling couple and I heard ‘Menorah’. A few days earlier had been school offer day and schools and their ‘bloody’ arbitrary admissions are indeed the chief concern of every parent with school age kids.

Finally the kiddush and after more than a sip of macallan and some herring and time being aplenty I popped into a famed local tsholent meet for the lads. This is where ex-Stamford Hillers gather for food, booze and schmooze, where they shed their Golders Green genteel manners and let their hair down, or rather the bit of stubble they have left after migrating. Here, talk veered from Trumpism to the downright genocidal peppered with more than a few blue comments in between. To their credit though, Tate got no mention. Being the only centrist in the room, far left woke to most of them, and being much the better for wear I asked the host whether freedom of speech in his salon includes anti-Trumpism too and he heartily consented. And so without further ado and with the benefit of all that golden juice in my system I primed my best baal-tefilo voice and in a full throated nusach denounced the Donald with a full-throated nusach of ומח שמו וזכרו, ונמח זכורו מלהזכירו, בזכרון קדוש. Omein and speedily in our days.

For Maariv it was Imrei Sefer on Golders Green Road. It’s the the second time I’ve dropped in and seems a pleasant enough shul where the English accented rov was discussing the finer points of the timing of the Purim sudeh with an honourable mention of his mother in law.

Which is yet another difference to Stamford Hill that many (most?) rabbonim there are British born and bred. Here, almost every major chasidic community has a foreign import which again tells you what confidence we have in our own local education system. Even the two most recent UOHC Rabbinate appointees are both foreign with the locally born and raised Dayan Schneck passed over.

After Maariv a reader took me to task on my abandoning of Twitter in favour of Substack. I explained that it isn’t so much an ideological boycott as the fact that the place stinks. Shoving onto your timeline ugly fights and far-right nonsense despite never having searched or previously looked while stuff I regularly read never make an automatic appearance. Ultimately, I do this for fun and pastime and being upset and wasting time on every visit with bait of octopuses slithering into the ground and planes taking off and landing is not worth the hassle. And if you doubt me, this post is living proof and much preferable to the 360 character limit. The brain knows no limits and the time you waste paring down a longer draft is much better spent writing what you’re currently reading.

On the other hand, his argument was that surely I also want to make a difference and the fact is that the barely 100 followers I currently have on substack which is also not the most ‘heimish’ of venues is no substitute for 4,000+ followers on the very chareidi Twittersphere. He suggested that I get someone to post to my twitter feed each time I post here on substack.

So are you a candidate? Are you willing to lend a hand? On my part I will have to know you and trust you and for your part all you need to do is post a link whenever I knock out some words here? Do we have a deal?

Have a Happy Purim Everyone!